His Wish, My Dying Heart

I was dying from a terminal illness, but my husband, Broderick, thought it was just another one of my games to get his attention. He hated me, convinced I had betrayed him years ago for money.

As I collapsed in agony, begging him to take me to the hospital, he grabbed my chin and whispered the words that shattered my world.

"I will never forgive you. I hope you just… die."

He then left me on the cold floor and rushed to the hospital to be with his true love, Kacey-my best friend. She was the one he worried about, the one whose own heart was failing.

He never knew that the "betrayal" he despised was actually my sacrifice to save his family from ruin. He never knew the depth of my love, a love so absolute that even his cruelty couldn't extinguish it.

So, when the doctors told me I was a perfect match, I made my final choice. I would grant his wish and give my heart to the woman he loved.

Chapter 1

My body ached, every muscle protesting as I forced myself out of bed. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet. A sharp, twisting pain in my abdomen made me gasp, doubling over for a moment before I straightened, gripping the edge of the nightstand.

The morning light, thin and unforgiving, streamed through the window, painting my reflection on the glass. My face was a ghostly white, shadowed by the dark circles under my eyes. I looked fragile, a breath away from shattering.

Then, I heard it.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps descending the stairs.

Broderick.

A familiar knot tightened in my chest-a mix of fear and a desperate, foolish hope. I took a shaky breath, gathering what little strength I had left. My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob. It was now or never.

"Broderick?" My voice was a weak whisper, barely audible, as if speaking his name consumed the last of my energy.

He stopped, mid-stride, at the foot of the stairs. His gaze, colder than any winter morning, swept over me. There was no warmth, no flicker of recognition for the woman he married. Only a piercing, clinical assessment. It felt like he was looking through me, not at me.

"Did you… did you want breakfast?" I asked, my voice small, almost pleading.

For a fleeting second, a tiny spark of hope ignited within me. Maybe, just maybe, he would soften. Maybe he would see me.

But the light in his eyes was quickly extinguished, replaced by that familiar, impenetrable mask. He turned, without a word, and walked towards the front door. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the silent house, each one a hammer blow to my already bruised heart.

The rejection hit me like a physical punch. My chest constricted, a familiar, agonizing pain spreading through me. Just as he reached the door, a desperate impulse surged.

"Wait!" I cried, rushing forward. My fingers clamped onto the sleeve of his expensive suit jacket.

The sharp pain in my stomach intensified, and I bit down hard on my lip to stop a cry from escaping. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth, but I barely registered it.

"Let go, Celina!" His voice was a low growl, laced with venom. He yanked his arm, trying to shake me off.

My grip faltered, but I couldn't completely release him. My fingers clung to the very edge of his jacket, a desperate, last-ditch effort. I was holding on by a thread, just like our marriage.

"Please, Broderick," I whispered, my voice trembling, each word a struggle. "I… I think I need to go to the hospital."

The words were forced out. I hated asking for anything, especially from him. He knew I was self-reliant, fiercely independent. This wasn't a trick. This wasn't some manipulative plea for attention. If I was asking, it meant something was truly wrong.

He turned, his eyes narrowing. "Where does it hurt?"

A sliver of relief, quickly followed by a fresh wave of nausea. I pointed vaguely to my lower abdomen, beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

He scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Still playing games, Celina? Still acting for sympathy?" His words were like a pail of icy water dumped over my head, freezing me solid.

Before I could react, his hand shot out, grabbing my chin, forcing my face up to meet his scornful gaze. His grip was bruising.

"You know what?" His voice was dangerously low, a chilling whisper that promised irreversible damage. "I will never forgive you. Not for anything you' ve done. I hope you just… die."

The world spun. My blood ran cold, every cell in my body screaming in protest. I couldn't stop shaking, a violent tremor that started in my core and rattled through my limbs.

He let go of my chin, his eyes devoid of emotion. Without another glance, he strode into his study and the heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off the last sliver of hope, leaving me alone in the vast, silent hall.

The pain in my abdomen exploded, sending me to my knees. I gasped, struggling for air, clutching my stomach as if to physically hold myself together. My vision blurred, tears mixing with sweat.

With a trembling hand, I fumbled for my phone in my pocket. My fingers, numb and clumsy, somehow managed to dial the emergency number.

Later that morning, Broderick heard the faint wail of an ambulance fading into the distance. It was a distant, almost imperceptible sound, easily dismissed. He stood by the window of his study, phone pressed to his ear, his face impassive. He assumed it was just another one of Celina's theatrics, a desperate attempt to manipulate him, perhaps to get her hands on his money now that her family was spiraling towards bankruptcy.

He remembered her past "betrayal" when his family had faced ruin. He believed she' d abandoned him then, seeking greener pastures. This was just more of the same. She was a gold-digger, an opportunist.

I sat on a sterile hospital bench, the fluorescent lights humming above me, casting a harsh glow on the stark white envelope in my hand. My name, Celina Fitzgerald, was printed neatly on the front. I knew what it contained even before I opened it.

The doctor' s words echoed in my head: "Terminal illness. Advanced stage."

The world tilted. It was a nightmare. It had to be. I ripped open the envelope, my eyes scanning the report, searching for a mistake, a typo, anything to contradict the horrific truth. But there it was, stark and undeniable.

"No," I whispered, my voice cracking.

I pushed myself off the bench, the pain in my stomach now a dull throb compared to the agony in my chest. I rushed to another doctor, a specialist whose name I' d heard. I begged him for a re-examination, a second opinion. He agreed, his eyes filled with a pity I couldn' t bear.

The results came back the same. A terminal illness. Confirmed.

"How… how long do I have?" I asked, the words barely a breath. My throat was tight, my eyes burning.

The specialist, a kind man with gentle eyes, knelt before me. He took my hand, his touch surprisingly warm. "We will do everything we can, Celina. We won' t give up."

His words were a balm, but they couldn't erase the cold, hard fact. I crumpled, fresh tears streaming down my face. "Everything you can?" I sobbed, the sound raw and broken. "It' s terminal. It' s… it' s over."

My illness wasn't just killing my body; it was a cruel metaphor for my marriage, for everything I had held onto. It was a failure I couldn't escape, a demise I couldn't prevent. Just like him, it was slowly, painfully, destroying me.